


a little like writing or loving

by shellybelle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bed-sharing, Derek Nurse is a giant nerd, M/M, and I think it's the law or something, obligatory poetry because it's a Nursey/Dex fic, technically pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9639224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellybelle/pseuds/shellybelle
Summary: Nursey struggles with a homework assignment, and Dex just wants to go to bed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Nursey Week](https://nurseyweek.tumblr.com/), Day 2: “Surprise or Simplicity.”

 

_“It was an act of devotion. A little like writing or loving someone — it doesn’t always feel worthwhile, but not giving up somehow creates unexpected meaning over time.”_

\- Miranda July, It Chooses You

 

 

“If that pen explodes in your mouth,” Dex says from the bathroom doorway, “I am not gonna feel bad for you.”

 

Derek startles--and _does_ drop the pen out of his mouth--and looks up. “What?”

 

Dex cocks a brow at him, flicking off the bathroom light and flopping down on the hotel bed next to Derek’s. “You’ve had two pens explode in your mouth from chewing on them like that,” he says. His red hair is wet, tousled from where he must’ve run his hands through it after his shower, and he rolls onto his stomach, propping himself on his elbows to look at Derek. “What’re you glaring at, anyway?”

 

“Homework,” Derek says, because it’s been a long day and he’s too tired to lie. He picks up the pen he dropped and puts it in his backpack, then digs out one of the nicer ones, the kind he knows _won’t_ explode. Then he sticks it in his mouth, worrying at the cap with his tongue while he scowls at the blank page of his notebook.

 

“Jesus,” Dex says, but there’s a note of fond exasperation in it. “Just put it away, if it’s making you that angry, man. It’s late, aren’t you tired?”

 

Derek shakes his head. “No. I mean, yeah, but like--” He shrugs. “I don’t sleep well on roadies.”

 

Dex frowns. “Since when?”

 

“I don’t know, since always?” Derek takes his pen out of his mouth and taps it against his knee, leaning back against his pillows. “I don’t, uh. It’s unfamiliar spaces, y’know? I don’t like falling asleep and then waking up not knowing where I am. Takes me forever to drop off.”

 

“So you, what, just--You’re just lying there, awake?” Dex sits up, muscles moving under the thin t-shirt he’s wearing to bed. Derek keeps his eyes carefully on the motion of his shoulders, nothing lower. “Shit, dude, you could wake me up or something.”

 

Derek shakes his head. “You need the sleep,” he says, which is true. Dex works way too hard, and always has circles under his eyes.

 

“So do you,” Dex points out.

 

“Yeah, but I subsist on, like, angst and coffee. It’s part of my aesthetic.”

 

“Ugh, I hate you.” Dex looks, briefly, like he’s contemplating throwing one of his pillows at him, but he seems to decide against it. “Fine. What’s making you so pissed off about your homework that you keep making that face at it?”

 

Derek scrunches up his nose at Dex instead of his notebook, just to be obnoxious, then shrugs. “It’s a poetry thing.”

 

“I thought you _liked_ poetry things,” Dex says. He doesn’t say _poetry_ like Draco Malfoy says _Mudblood_ anymore, Derek notices. He wonders when that stopped, when Dex started saying the word like something to be handled carefully, gently, instead. 

 

“I do,” Derek says. He flips his pen through his fingers. “But this is, like--” He huffs a sigh. “So the assignment’s to write a poem in fifteen words or less.”

 

Dex frowns. “And that’s...what? Bad?”

 

“Yes,” Derek says. “I mean. No. It’s just--not how I write. It’s not my writing style. I don’t…” He runs a hand distractedly through his hair. Jesus, bad enough he can’t get his words down on paper, now he can’t even talk properly. 

 

But Dex, for once, looks kind of patient, like he’s actually interested, curious. “I’ve seen you write,” he says, looking down at the notebook in Derek’s lap. The filled pages are crinkled at the edges, weighed down with ink--he always presses his pens too hard. “You’re always--It always seems like you’re trying to get something out.”

 

Derek snorts a laugh, half-humorless. “Yeah, that’s--pretty close, yeah.” 

 

_You write like you’re bleeding, my love,_ his mother likes to tell him, softly, running her fingers gently through his hair. _And sometimes, I think you are._

 

“I don’t really do _short_ ,” he says, when he realizes, belatedly, that Dex is still looking at him, waiting for him to keep talking. “Like, I do a lot of slam, you know? So for me, it’s about--about rhythm, and motion, and flow. The way the words spill over each other, like water over stones.”

 

Dex doesn’t look convinced. “I’ve watched some of that slam stuff,” he says doubtfully. “It just seems like people talking really fast into microphones. Not really like poems.”

 

Derek laughs, stretching his legs out on top of the blankets. “Then you’re either not watching the right ones, or you’re not paying close enough attention,” he says. 

 

Dex makes a face. “I guess,” he says, still skeptical. He leans back against his arms, the motion pulling his t-shirt taut against against his chest. _There’s your inspiration_ , Derek thinks, and shoves the thought down. Not helpful. “Just seems like yelling, to me.”

 

“I mean, the medium’s a part of it,” Derek allows. He twirls his pen, absently, just to have something to do with his hands. “How you use your volume, your breath, your cadence. But the words are still the core of it. It’s like--You know how Lardo does those paintings sometimes, where she dumps, like, a whole bucket of paint on the canvas? And at first it looks like nothing, just a mess, and then she starts in with her hands, and her brushes, and then all of a sudden you blink, and it’s got a shape to it? And you blink again, and it’s something that just looks...right?”

 

Dex nods, slowly, and Derek gives a small half-shrug. “That’s what writing is like for me. The words just spill, and then I go back over them, and over them and over them, and eventually they just...they look right.” He shakes his head, and taps his pen against the blank page in front of him. “I don’t know how to do that in fifteen words.”

 

It comes out frustrated and a little petulant. Spoiled, almost, and he regrets that, because he tries to keep at least a semblance of chill around Dex--not because he needs to; Dex knows him well enough to know that it’s all fake, but because he doesn’t like to seem childish around him. He sighs. “Sorry,” he says, weary and frustrated. “I shouldn’t take this shit out on you.”

 

Dex shrugs. “It’s fine. You’ve heard me bitch about my comp assignments.”

 

“Yeah, but…” Derek trails off, and then, at a loss, gives up and sticks his pen back in his mouth. Dex tracks the motion almost absently, and then flushes, his eyes jerking almost guiltily back up to Derek’s. Derek decides, in the spirit of the sleepy sort of companionship they seem to be going for tonight, to let that go. “Alright,” he agrees, around the pen.

 

“Good,” Dex says, like they’ve agreed on something important, not just on Derek whining about his homework. Then he yawns, scrubbing a hand over his face. He picks up his phone to check the time--Derek hasn’t dared--and winces. “Jesus,” he mutters. He looks back at Derek. “You really won’t be able to sleep, dude?”

 

“I’ll crash eventually,” Derek admits, because he’s rarely up _all_ night, but it’s gonna take him awhile for his body and brain to relax in the strange room. “It’s fine, man, seriously. You can go to bed.” He gestures to his notebook. “I can put this away, if the light’s gonna keep you up.”

 

Dex shakes his head. “You can leave it, it’s fine. I can sleep through anything.” He still looks unhappy. “You’re gonna be, like, dead tomorrow, dude. We have a game in the afternoon.”

 

“It’s chill, I’ll sleep on the bus.” Derek puts his notebook away anyway. Just because Dex _can_ sleep through anything doesn’t mean he should have to. And anyway, he’s not getting anywhere else with this. They won their game tonight, but he’s bone-tired and braindead, and inspiration’s not coming. 

 

Dex pauses, halfway through pushing back his covers. “Hey,” he says. “How come you can sleep on the bus, but not hotel rooms?”

 

Derek blinks. “I don’t know. Shit’s always the same, I guess? Same seats, same seat buddy?” He shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

 

Dex regards him for a moment, eyes thoughtful. “Huh,” he says. He furrows his brow, clearly contemplating something, and then makes the _fuck it_ face Derek usually only sees when he’s about to do something he knows he’s going to regret at a kegster. “Okay. Move over.”

 

“What,” Derek begins, but Dex is already getting up and crossing the space between their beds, pushing Derek over and climbing up and into bed with him. It’s a queen, so there’s plenty of room, but Derek’s internal freak-out-o-meter rockets straight to eleven, which, fortunately, looks like external chill. “What the fuck, dude,” he deadpans.

 

“Nothing weird,” Dex says, cheeks flushing as he flops back against Derek’s pillows and puts his phone down on the nightstand. “I just figured, like--You’re used to me, right? You know how to sleep next to me. So.” He coughs. “I thought it might. Help.”

 

He’s redder than his hair, and, Derek thinks, stupidly fucking beautiful with it. “Dude,” he says, a little strangled, trying for cool, probably failing. “I--” 

 

He cuts himself off. Fuck it, he’s not looking this in the mouth. “Thanks,” he says, awkward, but meaning it. “That’s--really fucking nice of you. But you don’t have to, if you’re not, like...Comfortable, or whatever.”

 

Dex blushes darker, which Derek honestly did not think was possible. But that’s Will Poindexter, full of fucking surprises. “I, uh. You know. It’s fine. And this bed’s like, giant. So it’s whatever. Besides, you fucking drool all over me on the bus anyway.” 

 

Derek scoffs. This is familiar territory. “I fucking _don’t_ ,” he says, shoving at Dex’s shoulder.

 

“Do,” Dex says, grinning. He yawns again. It’s fucking adorable. Derek wants to light himself on fire. “Cool if I turn this off?” He gestures at the light.

 

“Yeah.” Derek puts his phone down on the other table and turns off the sound. The light clicks off, plunging the room into darkness, the faint blue glow of moonlight filtering gently in through the gap in the curtains. The bed dips next to him, blankets rustling as Dex gets comfortable, and Derek can’t keep the fond snort back as he watches, squinting a little in the semi-darkness, as Dex punches his pillow a few times to get it flat and then flops his head down.

 

“You laughing at me, Nurse?”

 

“Never, Poindexter,” he says, immediate and totally dishonest and around a grin. He shifts under the blankets himself, pulling one of the pillows down and wrapping an arm around it. 

 

Without really thinking, he curls onto one side, facing Dex, who’s on his back. Dex’s profile is silhouetted in the darkness, familiar and so, so known, and Derek, not even realizing how relaxing it is, watches the gentle rise and fall of his chest, even and deep, even and deep. 

 

He takes a deep breath and lets it out, slowly. 

 

There’s a soft rustle, and a strong hand closes around his. “Go t’sleep, Nursey,” Dex mumbles.

 

His palm is warm, his grip gentle. Derek can feel his pulse. “Okay,” he says.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

…

 

The poem he turns into his professor on Monday is the shortest thing he’s ever written. He’s not sure if it’s any good. But he’d put the words down, and they’d looked right.

 

the sound 

of your pulse

beneath an unfamiliar

ceiling.

_\- home_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I literally?? Am so shit??? At poetry???? I'm so sorry Nursey, you deserve better. 
> 
> If you also love derek nurse, intersectional feminism, and having a lot of feelings, hit me up on tumblr: @geniusorinsanity


End file.
